


Rule Seventy-two Thousand

by Trill



Category: Homeward Bounders - Diana Wynne Jones, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: ACD!verse if you squint a bit, AU Fic, AU!Verse, F/M, JohnlockChallenges Exchange, M/M, doctor john to the rescue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-17
Updated: 2012-09-17
Packaged: 2017-11-14 11:39:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/514834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trill/pseuds/Trill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock Holmes was 26, he came across a game in a back alley. It was not the kind of game you wanted to stumble into. It was the great game, played by Them. They'd declared him a discard, and tossed him off the board.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Discard

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt, for ineffableboyfriends : "I'd like a fic about Sherlock meeting John in another universe and John falling in love with him. However, since it is not Sherlock’s universe, he will have to go back to his own. I want John to have to wait for Sherlock and whether or not Sherlock comes back to the John in the other universe or if they get together is up to the fic writer. Any rating."
> 
> This premise is essentially a Homeward Bounders AU, with bits of dialogue and plot cribbed from the brilliant Diana Wynne Jones, mixed with BBC's Sherlock. With a dash of ACD for good measure, because I couldn't resist. Obviously, I own none of these things, but instead chose to bask in their awesomeness and borrow the characters for my own amusement.

 

 

 

 The thick fog clung to London like a second skin. The smell of the Thames was mixed with the stench of the smoke from the factories. The buildings were blackened with soot, and the space between cobbles was thick with manure not yet washed away by the rain. The streets were awash with noise- shouting and talking and the clatter of horse carts and trolleys.

To Sherlock Holmes, it was beautiful. It was home, it was the fair lady London, the only lover he needed, with her mysteries and allure. She was a living creature, a changeable beauty who's every street he'd memorized. From the tips of the tower to the steamy sewers, he knew her. She was his home.

He'd spent a profitable evening at the pub, gathering information for his current case. A man's wife had lied about her origins- common and boring- but he'd needed to make rent. And the more he questioned, the deeper the rabbit hole got- no one knew of her before last year. Not even a whisper. Her parents could not be tracked and she had no bank account or identifying marks. A common case gone unusual, his favorite kind.

Outside of murder, of course. Murder was always interesting.

 As dawn broke over the city, its light starting to burn off the fog, he made his way down to the docks. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw- something. A flash. Something that hadn't been there before, a gap between two buildings wide enough for a man to slip through- but the thick red brick had connected the two homes just hours before.

 He slipped between the two buildings, unable to ignore his curiosity. A thin walkway led into a triangular green courtyard, which was lush with grass and bushes and even trees- an anomaly at this time of year, an impossibility in the thick smog of London town. He stepped down, searching the grass line for signs of recent planting- perhaps it was sod, grown elsewhere and transplanted- but upon stepping onto the grass, the world went quiet.

 No noise. No shouting, no hum of humanity. Sherlock couldn't hear the heartbeat of the factories or the cadence of the streets. It was like going deaf, and he went very still. Two, three, four deep breaths and he'd reassured himself it was just soundproofing. Very good soundproofing, but just technology. A path led away from the street, further in between the buildings, and he followed it, striding along with his coat spread out behind him.

 Approximately two hundred feet from the center of the garden, there was a building that had not been there before. It sticks out like a sore thumb against the brick of London, yellow stone walls more like the pictures he's seen of India. Sherlock approaches carefully, ignoring the thick wooden door and stepping off the path to look through a low, smudged window.

 A figure stood there, dressed in a cloak with the hood drawn over his head. He seemed like a hunchback, and he could tell the man was shorter than average from the way the cloak dragged the ground as he moved through the room. The room was something of a printing press, Sherlock believes, frown creasing his face. There were flickers of lights coming from boxlike machines, like cash registers from shops, all brass and flashing, buttons waiting to be pressed.

 Three more cloaked figures joined the first man, and _They_ stood over a board. It looked like a chessboard, but it was difficult to tell from this distance. A map hung on the wall, and the four figures stood over it. Likely a secret society, not uncommon in London, but Sherlock had never heard of a society able to keep a garden so lush or with the resources to have such a space-

 Curiouser and curiouser. Moving away from the window, he glanced at the brass plate by the door:

  **THE OLD FORT**

**MASTERS OF THE REAL AND ANCIENT GAME**

Making a mental note to investigate further once he'd wrapped up his current case, he turned to head out of the courtyard the way he'd came- only to come face to with _Them_. _They_ had their cloaks drawn up high, shadow covering most of their faces, and then Sherlock only knew darkness.

 

~*~

 

When he awoke, he wasn't certain of how much time had passed. He was sitting up, a solid wall behind him, and the figures were once again in front of their chessboard, carefully moving pieces again. Closing his eyes quickly, he listened.

 “Another random factor,” The shortest of the cloaked figures sounded annoyed- a bit like Mycroft sounded most of the time, actually.

 Another cloaked figure said, “We best deal with him before we go on, then. We can't afford another corpse at this stage in the game, it would draw too much attention and throw off our business in the west end. We could use another random, though...”

 There was a quiet hum to the air, like the factories had, only much quieter. He could almost write it off as background noise, but it was too steady. Too insistant.

 “The risk adds to the fun, though! I think we'd best discard this one to the Bounder circuits- but let's check first, eh?” Sherlock looked out from under his eyelashes, careful to keep his eyes mostly closed. All four figures were bent over one of the cash registers, and it was spewing forth paper at an alarming rate. _They_ appeared to read it over before turning their attention to chessboard again- from his new position on the floor, Sherlock could see it was the size of four standard boards put together, and he can see it flickering, as if with candle light.

 “Play is quite delicate now, isn't it?” Said the first one, looking at the tallest of the figures.

 “Yes, it is- if he was on your side, it would bring the revolution closer, but I can't afford the unrest right now. I'm going to claim unfair hazard- let's discard him. Agreed?” The fourth figure stood in front of the map, carefully tracing along France's border with a finger. Beneath his hand, lights sparked on the map. Sherlock felt his eyes widen, and then forced them closed. After two, three, four beats of his pounding heart, he peeked again.

 The second came back and looked at the map, “We could scrub all memory of him- go back over his family.”

 “Oh no!” Said the third, “We can't afford to lose his brother, not at this stage of play.”

 “Quite right. The government would fall, and none of us can afford it. Plus, it would be against the rules of discard- the anchor, you know.” The fourth finally speaks up, shaking his head.

 “But we could scrub with a corpse-”

 “No!” Snapped the third, “I've already claimed unfair hazard. Your only option is to discard him.”

 “Let's make sure the bounder circuit isn't overloaded, and then we'll wake him.” The first nodded, and went to a different cash register and began to type furiously. And then the entire room just... opened up. Like a Faberge egg, almost, or the curtains at a play but-

 Once, Sherlock had been to a house of mirrors. You could sit looking into one mirror, and see through it into the mirror behind you, over and over and over until it blurs into the distance. The image would distort and twist, based on the quality of the glass used or the angles used. It was a bit like that, seeing this exact room over and over and over again. Like a dozen windows lined up. He can't help his eyes from going wide now, and he doesn't bother to close them again. This was impossible, but-

 There were hundreds of _Them_. Men in cloaks, faces cast in shadow, with their machines laid out in front of them. He had a sinking feeling that they could all see him, though they all flickered like a candle flame, and blurred like a mirror.

 “Your attention, for a moment?” The first figure spoke from right beside Sherlock, “We are about to make a discard. Can everyone confirm that there is still room on the Bounds?”

 He swallowed hard as one of the far away figures responded, its voice distant, “Computing.”

 The fourth of Sherlock's _Them_ , the one still in the room with him, looks down and whispers to his companions that Sherlock is awake, but no one makes a move to quiet him. He doesn't move, trying to figure out how they're managing the optical illusion, and how best to avoid becoming a corpse.

 “What is the reason for the discard?” This voice is nearer, and Sherlock is fairly certain it's coming from one of the figures on the left- one that flickers less, more like the steady glow of gaslight.

 The second of his _Them_ answers, “I've claimed unfair hazard. Scrubbing him would ruin my play, and leaving him a corpse would disrupt this turn.”

 There's murmering- half voices Sherlock can't quite hear- before the nearer voice replies, “That seems adequate.”

 Almost immediately, the first far away figure reponds, “The Bounds have room for four more discards. Do we find the reason sufficient?”

 For a moment, it's almost like being in parliment. Voices all around him, some quiet and others raised, murmers and shouts and people hearing out their arguments. After what feels like an eternity, the faraway voice returns with, “Reason sufficient. However!” Silence falls, and Sherlock is surprised to find he's holding his breath, “Rule seventy-two thousand now comes into play. The final three discards must be made with extreme caution.”

 And with that... it all faded away, and Sherlock was left in room with just his _Them_ , who are now all staring at him. He can feel their eyes, rather than see them, and he stands on shaky legs, pulling his coat tightly around him, “I-” He starts, but the second interupts him. One of _Them_ has his hands on a handle of some kind, right next to the board.

 “You are now a discard,” He said, speaking over Sherlock's protests, “We have no further use for you in play. You are free to walk the Bounds as you please, but it will be against the rules for you to enter play in any world. To ensure you keep this rule, you will be transferred to another field of play every time a move ends in the field where you are. The rules also state that you are allowed to return Home if you can. If you succeed in returning Home, then you may enter play again in the normal manner.”

 Sherlock at him, trying to make sense of the man. He didn't look like just a cloaked figure anymore- he was blurry, and his hand was thick and gnarled, ending in claws. From under the hood of his cloak, Sherlock can almost see a rat's nose and whiskers- but- “Wait a minute! What's all this, then? What are the rules? Who made them?! TELL ME.” He bellows, looking from one to the other.

 All four of _Them_ stared at him like he was an ant, demanding to know why he was about to be stepped on. He tried again, “You've no right to do this- at least explain!” 

On the word explain, _They_ pulled the lever.   
  
And suddenly, he was somewhere else entirely.  


	2. Wander

TWO HUNDRED TURNS is a lot of worlds, a lot of languages, and a lot of life.

When the boundaries call, he goes. It can be a park or a tree or a particular spot of ocean. It could be a pond or a circle- but all of them are out of the way, and most of them have markings left by other travelers. Words scratched into bark, scrawled in marker on a rock, carefully scratched into the pavement. Warnings, suggestions: War, friendly, cannibals, don't eat the shrimp- it could be important, or it was important to whomever left it. Sherlock mostly ignores the warnings, preferring to make his own choices. But they can be helpful. He only has what he can carry with him: some worlds leave him broke, others stuff his pockets with gold. Currency isn't helpful, it varies too much, but gold and precious stones seem to keep their value across economies.

There are four rules he's learned.

One, you cannot be harmed. Sherlock made a hobby of dying. It had sustained his interest for a few turns of the board. He'd jumped off a waterfall, once, and bobbed up downstream after three hours under water. Another time, he'd shot himself, point blank in the temple. It had taken a ghoulish month to heal, but it had.

Once, in desperation, he'd spent three months living on nothing on the world's drug of choice, a sticky sap that came out of trees that sang at sunrise. He'd spent most of that turn in a haze brought on by opiates, drifting in and out of conciousness in the back of some chief's hut. He'd become something of a god there- but he'd been forced to sober up when the next world was nothing but a vast sea, churning and cold. It hadn't been pleasant, but he hadn't died, either. Buoyed up by the salt water, he'd floated somewhere between the sea and the sky, miserable.

Over time, over turns, his feelings dulled. Hunger became a dull ache. Exhaustion didn't matter, didn't bother him. His body became more and more impervious to outside stimuli- he had to push harder for half the feelings he'd had before, a resource that for him, really, wasn't particularly great before. His mind, his mind is what would get him out of this endless loop, and everything else? Everything else was a distraction.

The second rule is that none can harm you.

He'd learned this lesson on his first trip to what he affectionately calls the Cow World. He'd been facing a funeral pyre, his own, when lightning had struck down the chief. In a particularly bloody world, inhabited by demons, he'd tested the theory, tracking down the menacing creatures on their own territory, and waiting for them to kill him. He wasn't suicidal: he was just bored.

The third rule is that you can never enter play.

He's tried. He's railed against this rule, screamed at it, sulked at it, wept in the darkness at the injustice of it all. He cannot kill. He cannot assist an army. He cannot participate. He is a witness to all the worlds, a ghost of a man with a mind so sharp it's killing him from the inside out. His boredom, his frustration, his irritation- he's dying, but he's a man who can't die.

So now, as Lestrade would say, he's an arsehole. Because nothing can hurt him. Everything hurts and nothing hurts and he's untouchable. Other. Apart.

The fourth rule is the only one he's discovered to have any kind of exception: no other bounder can travel with him. He thinks that this one gets bent quite a lot of the time, but he's careful not to break it. He's not sure why he'd want to, anyways. He's met a handful of other bounders- Lestrade, a bitter man who reminds him on London. Molly, who's all nervous energy and a high, tittering laugh that can grate on you after two hours, let alone two weeks on a world made up of nothing but a giant carnival with flashing lights and bitter coffee.

But- they understand. And so the three of them travel together when they can, each of them trying to find the one thing that will end this endless cycle of worlds and turns: Home.

 

*~*

 

He's been alone for nearly fifty turns- he's run into two or three other bounders, and written them off as insane. They ramble and are prone to tears and none of them have any answers. They've lost themselves in the boundary circuits- one man hadn't bothered to leave the boundary itself, sobbing next to a swiftly scrawled warning of HERDING CULTURE.

The world Sherlock finds himself in on turn fifty-one is almost familiar. It's got a giant capital city, with several smaller farming towns, with pubs in between. They fight with swords and bow and arrows, but they fight each other: no demons or magic, that he can find. Their language is easy to learn, similar to French. He masters it after a week, and then tries to find ways to keep his mind busy.

For the last fifteen minutes, the man across the bar has been viewing him with an odd expression. The man's hair is grey at the roots, but the rest appears to have been dyed a uniform brown. His tan is rather odd for a world that sees so little sunshine. He wears a sword at his hip with an unease that belies his age. Sherlock locks eyes with him, purposely keeping his expression vague- just a stranger at the same pub.

“You're not from around here, are you?”

“What gave you that idea?” The grey haired man's eyebrows raise, and there's a challenge to his tone.

“Your coat has a zipper.”

“...and?”

“Look around you! No one here has zippers, they clearly don't have the technology to manage it. You don't know how to use the sword you have, and given its age and wear, you likely nicked it. You haven't touched your drink, and I saw your face when the waitress offered to bring you dinner- you hate the local cuisine, or you don't have enough money for both food and drink. Given the chain around your neck is gold, likely the former. You're either a time traveller-” He pauses to scoff, “Which is unlikely, or a bounder,”

The man is looking at him with a mix of revulsion and- awe? That Sherlock has come to expect, “You got all that from a zipper?”

“Among other things.”

“Huh.” The man studied Sherlock, taking in his mud-splattered coat and his rough spun shirt, before offering a hand, “Greg Lestrade.”

“Sherlock Holmes,” He doesn't take his hand, but instead takes Lestrade's drink, taking a long drag of the sweet, amber liquid.

“Those'll kill you, you drink too much of it.”

“One can hope.”

“I notice, Mr. Holmes, that you have a zipper, too.” He gestures to the taller man's jeans.

A smile spreads across his face, “I do indeed, Lestrade. I do indeed.”

 

~*~

 

“Molly Hooper?” Greg offers a hand to the younger woman, along with a smile, “We were told you were a little... different.”

“What? Me? No, not me,” She fidgets with her hair, but she's out of place here. The room is spotless, but small, the walls thick with overflowing bookshelves and reference materials, “I just- help out, sometimes. With the doctor's work.”

This world fought demons, a small island nation against the monsters on the main continent. They'd tamed dragons, had a magician class, and had no sense of medicine whatsoever. Their idea of hygiene was masking their stench with perfumes and powders, and they all wore masks when out of doors, to confuse the demons that they were convinced were going to leap out of nothingness and destroy them. To find a girl who wore no mask, bathed, and kept her fingernails trimmed to nothing: well, it screamed anomaly. And Sherlock and Greg made a habit of investigating anomalies, trying to find others like them.

“Your nails are trimmed neatly. Polished, or they were- it looks like you scraped it off, I can see the tearing. You're clearly educated, most women here aren't able to read, and you've developed a reputation with the locals for knowing healing magic, which we both know is patently untrue because you lack the piercings they use to denote a student of magic. You speak their language with an accent, like Greg and I, and your name doesn't mention a clan. Please, Ms. Hooper. Don't pretend.”

“Oi!” She steps back, shaking her head, “No need to- be that. Who are you, then?”

“We're like you. We think.” Greg shoots Sherlock a glare, putting a hand on the other man's elbow to get him to shut up and stand down.

“What, lost?” She snorts.

“No. Are you a discard?”

“...you know _Them_?” Her voice is hushed, and they know they've found another one. Three days later, when the bounds call, they go together.

 

~*~

 

Five turns later, and they're still together. They've found themselves in another island world, one with a primitive people who can cook very, very well. It's a bit like a vacation, Molly keeps reminding them, and so they spend most of their time on the beach. Sherlock is bored out of his skull, but Lestrade is determined to 'take a break'. From what, Sherlock wants to know, but he just follows their lead, sulking beneath a palm frond umbrella.

“You have to find home. It's the only way to stop traveling,” Molly Hooper buried her toes in the beach, pink nails hidden in the white sand.

“And how, exactly, do you propose we do that?” Sherlock hated this world. The sun was too bright, the sand was too gritty and the ocean stunk of fish and brine. The smell was sharp in the back of his throat, oil and salt and rotting fish.

“Dunno. If I knew that, I'd be home, instead of on this beach with two idiots.”

“Oi!” Lestrade looked up from his book, trying not to smile.

Sherlock hmphs, and closes his eyes, tuning their flirting for the rest of the afternoon while he cleaned his mind attic.

 

~*~

 

Sherlock's favorite world was the one with the bees. The people there had set themselves up like bee hives, each walled town ruled by a queen. Their entire society was populated by women, and the men could just lounge around and breed. That wasn't what made it his favorite world, of course, though he didn't hear Lestrade complain, even as Molly did- he loved the actual bee hives they kept, the complex society within them. Also, honey.  
  
The turn there only lasted a week, but it was a good week- Sherlock got a lot of research in, Lestrade enjoyed himself, and Molly spent the next turn and a half talking about how if women ruled most worlds, things would be better.

Lestrade didn't have a favorite world, but he preferred the ones with soldiers and order to the ones that favored anarchy. From what Sherlock could deduce, Greg had once been in charge of something, and the loss of control was what bothered him most about being a discard. He'd never said such a thing, but it was there in the curve of his mouth and the way he stood up taller when arguments with the locals got too heated. He was the one who always managed to talk them out of complications.

Molly's favorite world was a carnival. They'd spent six insipid months there on one turn, ambling along its many boardwalks in the shadows of ferris wheels and merry go rounds, drunk on the local beverage of choice. Its people ambled and seemed in a permanent state of intoxication.

Lestrade liked the tilt-a-whirl. Molly liked the bumper cars. Sherlock liked the sharp tug in his gut that meant the turn was over. 

 

~*~

 

“Do you ever consider trying to find them again?” Sherlock took a long drag of his cigarette, leaning against the church wall. They'd been in this world for two weeks now, sleeping at a hostel and taking care of themselves during the day. It was a more modern world, with technology and computers- Sherlock hated computers. They'd had to scrounge up money for new clothes, and so Lestrade had begun working at a factory, and Molly at a shop. They kept simple jobs, jobs where no one would miss you when you stopped showing up. Jobs you wouldn't miss when the turn ended.

 Sherlock spent his days in the library, overcome with gratitude a world with the written world. It wasn't quite the same as English, but it was close enough to German that he'd worked it out in a few hours.

 “Don't even joke!” Molly nearly choked on her fizzy drink, tilting her head up so she can glare at him properly across the small courtyard.

 “Every damn day, mate. But what would we tell them? That _They_ were cheating?” Lestrade shrugs, stomping out his own cigarette butt with the heel of his boot.

 “Something like that. Or at least try to get a sense of the other rules- _they're_ playing a game. _They_ have to be playing a game, some kind of chess, we just-”

 “We just need to stay out of their way.” Molly sets her drink down with a small thud, and no one says anything after that. 

 

~*~

 

Three turns later- ocean world, dark world, and bee world again- Sherlock slips away one night, leaving Lestrade and Molly in the pub. He goes to the boundary on his own, when it's not calling, and- tries.

He knows it's worked when he's suddenly somewhere else.

 And it's noise and light and that familiar smell- long forgotten, buried in the back of his mind's attic behind a dozen worlds and their languages, buried back behind Molly's favorite drink and Lestrade's least favorite joke and- the smell of London. The cacophony of London, the sounds and the feel and the cobbles under his-

 And then he's struck and everything goes dark again.

 

 


	3. Ward

A while later, he forces his eyes open, head ringing. Someone is speaking, voice authoritative and low, giving orders? He can't tell, and he's blinded by a light being waved in front of his eyes. There are white coats, and he can hear the quiet beep of some kind of monitoring equipment. He remembers that from a world that had space travel, and technology he'd only dreamed of. He blinks once, twice, trying to place himself. All he can remember is London, and then he realizes-

 

"English! You're all speaking English." Sherlock gaped at the doctor, "Where am I?" 

  
"...In the surgery. Getting looked at, because they thought you might have gotten a bit of a bump to your head." The doctor frowned, and bent to wield his flashlight at the tall, lanky man's eyes. 

"No, no. Not that. Any idiot could tell me that. English. That narrows it down. You have an accent. That penlight, that runs on batteries, excellent, and-" 

"You're in London." The doctor is rather short, and his blond hair is cut short and close. He's wearing a plaid collared shirt beneath his white coat, with a stethoscope dangling 'round his neck. 

Home. He'd made it home. The game was over. His relief and- but his London didn't have that kind of technology. His heart drops to the bottom of his stomach, and he goes very still. 

“Can you tell me your name, please?” The doctor

“Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes- let me up!” He jerks up and- 

“Stay still.” The doctor snapped, using the whole of his arm to pin Sherlock down to the bed, “You were struck quite hard by a car-” 

“Let me up!” 

“Don'-” The blond doctor goes to stop the nurse, and then everything blurs for Sherlock. The last words he hears are the doctor scolding the nurse for using a sedative.

 

~*~  
  


When he wakes, he's in what he can only assume is a hospital room. It's small, and a machine beside his bed keeps time with his heartbeat. The bed's rails are up on either side of him, and he realizes with a start that he's been handcuffed to the right one. He squirms his way up to a sitting position, nearly jerking the IV out of the crook of his arm. He uses his left hand to feel the inside of the handcuff, frowning. Warm. He's been wearing the cool metal quite a while for it to have warmed up next to his skin.

 His next realization is that he's not wearing his coat- or his shirt. Hell. He scowls down at the paper-thin gown he's wearing, left with more questions than answers. There's a screen on the wall in front of him, but its off, and he can barely make out his reflection in the black surface. He can see the chart at the end of his bed, but he can't reach it, not while he's cuffed like this. The curtains are closed, but there's no ambient light behind them- if he had to guess, it's close to midnight. The halls outside are relatively quiet, but if he strains he can hear the beeping machines of other patients.

 For a moment- just one- he wishes that Lestrade was here to talk them out of this, or Molly, to pout at people until they released him.

 Left with no choice, he clears his throat and calls out, “Hello?”

 No answer, so he tries again.

 On his third, much louder attempt, a rather harried looking woman sticks her head into his room. She's wearing an odd outfit- scrubs, he's seen them on other worlds- plastered with smiling mice- “The doctor will be here in a moment, just wait!”

 And with a roll of her eyes, she's gone again, leaving Sherlock frustrated and alone.

 

~*~

 

The doctor comes in not ten minutes later, a small eternity to a bored patient chained to a bed. He's tried to move so he can read the prescription on the IV bag, but it's no use. In a valiant attempt to reach his chart, he's managed to knock it off the bed with his toes, leaving it even further out of reach. By the time the doctor arrives, he's in an even fouler mood.

“Hi, sorry, hi,” It's the doctor from before, and his forehead is creased with worry and stress. He doesn't look up at Sherlock, instead reaching to rescue the chart and read it first, “About the sedative, I mean. How are you feeling?”

“Fine.” He rattles the handcuffs against the bedrail, an eyebrow raised.

The doctor looks up from his chart, and winces, blue eyes meeting Sherlock's gaze, “Sorry about those, too. Nurses were a bit concerned. We'll get those off in a bit. Now, can you tell me your name?”

“Sherlock Holmes,” He answers, eyes narrowed. The man stands with his weight on his heels, something learned from having to look up quite a bit. He's young- Sherlock would put him at maybe twenty four or twenty five, and probably not very high on the hospital's totem pole to be working so late a shift.

“Right, and where do you live?” He has his pen out now, scribbling on a notepad held on the metal chart's backing.

Sherlock frowns, trying to remember his old address. It's lost to him now, so he goes with a vague answer, “London.”

“Bit vague, mate, but alright. Do you have a specific address?”

“No.”

The doctor jots down homeless on the chart, which matches what they'd found in his pockets- a few bits and bobs, different looking coins and some small books filled with strange writing. No wallet, no phone. No ID, either. “What about a date of birth?”

He eyes the doctor, “What year is it?”

“...what?” He stares, and then laughs, startled, “You're not serious.”

“I asked what year it was.” Sherlock grits his teeth.

“2003,” John frowns at him, but leaves the date of birth field blank and moves on to his next question, “Who should we contact?”

“No one, thank you.”

“Right, Mr. Holmes, we'll need to be able to contact someone in order to come pick you up. You've had quite a blow to your head, and judging by the MRI it's not your first, so-”

“I'll be fine.”

“I don't think you under-”

“Do you have a name, doctor...?”

“John Watson,” He winces, offering a hand- and then winces again, as Sherlock jangles the handcuffs against the railing again, “Sorry. Right. Dr. John Watson.”

“Do the administrators here not like you?”

“What?”

“I've been unconscious for at least twelve hours. Earlier, your watch said twelve noon, and now it says one o'clock. You could have gone home and come back, but that seems unlikely because no one would wear that shirt twice in a row if they could help it and based, again, upon your watch, you clearly have the money to afford more than one shirt. You also have mustard or curry on the wrist of your lab coat, meaning you've eaten at least one meal between when I was knocked out and now. So either you drew the short straw or your boss doesn't like you and has you working long shifts.” Sherlock sits up straighter as he rattles off his deductions, shoulders back.

John blinks, looking at the man in the bed. Then he grins, shaking his head, “Student, actually. But you're right about the curry.”

“Student? But you-”

“I know, I know. Bit old, yeah? Resident, really, but only just. And I didn't draw the short straw, I volunteered. Thought it might help you, having a familiar face when you woke up chained to a bed,” He grinned, “Also bet you'd remember me, which you clearly did.”

“Of course I did.”

“You were hit pretty hard by that car- witnesses would have sworn you died on scene, one paramedic was mighty surprised. They arrested the man who hit you, by the way.”

“Yet I'm the one-” He rattles the handcuff again, eyes narrowed.

“You were a bit violent in the ER, like I said. Scared some nurses. Mind if I?” He waggles the pen light, “We're going to have to keep you for observation, alright? Those can come off in the morning, once you answer some questions for the officers.”

Sherlock huffs, but nods, submitting to the doctor's tests and answering the questions about how his head hurts. It doesn't, not really- it's a dull ache, and if he runs his left hand along the back of his skull he can feel stitches, and-

“We had to relieve some pressure,” John explains, watching Sherlock's face as he feels the stitches, “You'll be fine, with time, but we're a bit concerned about memory loss. Are you sure you can't tell me where you live?”

 "...No. I'm tired,” He waves his hand in John's direction, dismissively, feeling the fine stitches.

 “Alright, alright. You can sleep, but a nurse'll be in every hour to check up on you, alright? Give a shout if you need more pain medication. It's a bit tricky, but we'll do what we can.”

 “Fine.”

 “I'll see you in the morning,”

 “I said, fine!” Sherlock snaps, scowling. He runs his fingers over the stitches, feeling where they've shorn his hair.

 “Right then.” John frowns, “Leave those stitches be, alright? I wouldn't want to have to redo them.”

 “Yes, yes,” Sherlock waves him away, panic growing in his chest. Between the stitches, Sherlock can feel his flesh healing. Slowly, but certainly faster than an average human's. He's a bounder, but he's made it back to London. From what he's deduced, he should have entered normal play. He shouldn't be healing like this, not if- he pushes the thoughts from his head, and turns his attention to escaping the handcuffs.

 

~*~

 

The next morning, Sherlock answered all the police officer's questions. Lestrade would have even said he'd behaved fairly well, resisting the urge to shout at them. He didn't remember his so called accident, he didn't remember his address, and he didn't remember a contact to reach. All parties involved in the interrogation were left frustrated, and after a particularly barbed comment about the younger officer's wife, Sherlock finds himself still in handcuffs.

 When Dr. Watson comes in just after the nurses bring Sherlock lunch, he's wearing a checked shirt beneath his lab coat- a different coat, Sherlock notes, as there is no staining around the sleeves. He also looks less tired, the lines on his face less pronounced.

 “You can't keep me here.” Sherlock shook his wrist, the handcuffs rattling against the metal of the bedrail.

 “I think we can,” John gives him a dour look over his clip board, “You've still got a headwound, and you can't tell us where you live or who to release you too. I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes, but at this point releasing you into your own care would be foolish.”

Sherlock submits to the inspection, scowling. He's asked a few basic questions- math, history- but holds his tongue. After a few more minutes, the doctor gets called away by a nurse and Sherlock is once again left alone.

 

~*~

 

A few hours later, John paused in the doorway, frowning at his patient. Sherlock has spread dozens of newspapers across his bed, and was carefully going over each out with a red pen, likely stolen from an intern. He's bent over the papers, a look of concentration on his face and his blue hospital dressing gown pulled tight around his bony shoulders. He watches for a moment, trying to keep from smiling, "What are you doing?"   
"Trying to decide if that question is worth answering."

"You should be lying down."

"You should be handling patients."

"If you hadn't noticed, I am. Now lie down, and rest- and where did you get all those papers?”

His question is answered with a huff of a laugh, and Sherlock goes back to his papers. A moment later, he hears John's retreating footsteps.

 

~*~

 

“Do you not have anything better to do?” Sherlock eyes John over the rim of his coffee cup.

“Not particularly, no. Your room is quietest in the surgery, and this way, someone's keeping an eye on you- so long as you don't mind?” John is sitting in the chair by Sherlock's bed, charts strewn on the TV tray in front of him. He's been working on the charts for nearly an hour now, getting caught up on his paper work.

“No,” It's snapped, “Don't you ever get bored of this?”

“Of what?”

“The hospital. This-” He gestures, wincing as it makes the handcuffs clink against the bedrail. They'd removed one set, now only his left hand is stuck. He's fairly sure he could escape the handcuffs, but- he hasn't anything better to do, not yet.

“It's hardly boring. It's work.” John shrugs, his shaggy hair flopping over his eyes as be bends to get a better look at a particularly poor sample of handwriting on Oscar Albion's chart.

“Did you always want to be a doctor?”

“No.” He looks up, eyes meeting Sherlock's, “I planned to enlist, before- then I realized I wanted to go into army medicine, so med school came first.”

“An army doctor?”

“Yes.” He shrugs, going back to his paperwork.

“I don't understand this world.” Sherlock groans, flopping back against the bed dramatically, “I need more information. More data. More- who's the queen? The king? Is it still- is this London? Truly? Has it always been London?”

John's frowning again, looking at Sherlock with a mixture of disbelief and... Sherlock's not sure what the other emotion is. Pity, perhaps, or scorn. It's a twinge of his eyes, the certain way the doctor's forehead crinkles when he's thinking. The silence stretches on between them, John studying his patient. He feels exposed under his gaze, squirmy, like he can't sit still but he can't move.

“Well?!”

“Sometimes,” Dr. Watson begins, wetting his lips, “I can't decide if you're actually insane, or if you're playing at something that I don't quite understand.”

Sherlock scowls, and turns so his back is to John. They spend the rest of the evening in silence.   
  


~*~

 

When Sherlock wakes up the next morning, there's a history book beside his bed. He smiles.

 

~*~

 

After two days in the hospital, his world has become a whirl of nurses and doctors and John, visiting or sitting with him. He doesn't ask questions anymore, but he answers them. The man is smarter than he looks, with knowledge across a dozen or more subjects, but the lack of depth in his answers frustrates Sherlock. John can tell him all about the solar system, and even a dozen constellations and the Americans on the moon- but he can't explain the gases that have made Jupiter green, or the specifics on the moon landing. He's gotten to know most of the nurses, but he mostly ignores them, reading the books John brings him instead. It's history and science, and it's his world. He finds quite a bit of information about his time, but Mycroft is absent from the written record. There's nothing, absolutely nothing about Sherlock Holmes.

He ignores his tray of food most of the time, but when John is around he can be guilted into eating from it. A handful of other doctors sit with him- other residents in John's year, mostly, and two psychologists. He ignores them until they go away- they don't answer his questions, just asking their own. He has no answers to give them, no answers that make sense. Using the papers Carolyn, a friendly nurse, brings him, he's patching together a personal history. He just has to perfect the lie, and then he can be free.

 

~*~

 

"...So Carolyn has been stealing all the lollies." John echoes. 

"Yes, I do believe I said that." He didn't look up from his papers, circling a few interesting articles in red.

"And you came to that conclusion how?"

"Her pens."

"...Her pens."

"She chews the ends of them." He holds up the red pen he's using, the end chewed flat.

"She chews the ends of her pens."

"Are you just going to repeat everything I say? Yes! Yes, she chews the ends of her pens because she has an oral fixation. If you borrow them, the ends smell like cherry and grape, just like the lollipops you keep by your desk. Her pockets crinkle with the wrappers when she walks. She's your candy thief."   
"Brilliant."

"...what?" He turned to look at John, the shorter man standing in the doorway.

“I've been wondering who's been knicking them for a few weeks now, though I won't ask how you knew they were on my desk.” John is smiling at him, and Sherlock feels a tiny twinge in his chest.

“Well, there you are.”

 “Thanks.”

 “You're welcome,” Sherlock feels his cheeks get hot, and coughs, “But a sweet tooth, John? Really?”

 

~*~

 

“It just all came back to me,” Sherlock is explaining to Dr. Montgomery when John comes in the next morning, “I live at 47 Chagford Street, and I'm a researcher. I work for a pharmaceutical company, they must be wondering where I am.”

 He's kept his voice light, as far from his usual tone as he can get. The lies roll easily off his tongue, constructed carefully from three days of reading the papers and listening to the nurses drone on and on about life. He's recited variations of the script to two nurses and Dr. Montgomery, but he can't meet John's eyes.

 “Looks like you're free to go, then,” Dr. Montgomery smiles, “I'll get the nurses, and we can begin processing the paperwork. You'll need to see your GP for a follow up, of course, and we can get you in contact with some specialist-”

 “Thank you. For being so kind these last few days.”

 “Think nothing of it! We're just glad you're back on your feet. You've done well in your observations, we'll just give you one last check up before you- Dr. Watson, excellent, I was just going to page you. Mr. Holmes says he's recovered his memory.”

 “Has he?” John raises a brow, looking at Sherlock.

 “Yes, thanks to you.” Sherlock gives him a smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

 “Right- I'll start processing the discharge paper work, then.” Dr. Watson can't keep the skepticism out of his voice, but he leaves.

 Sherlock lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding, and goes back to Dr. Montgomery's questions.

 

~*~

 

“You lied.” John hisses in his ear as he checks Sherlock's stitches, deft fingers gently pressing the wound. Sherlock tries not to squirm, leaning obediently forward.

 “I don't know what you mean.”

 “You don't live anywhere near there,” It's whispered, even though the small room is empty, with the door closed.

 “I do.” Sherlock snaps back, his voice low.

 “I live a street over- your stitches look good- and I have never seen you anywhere near there. Nor do you have house keys, or ID, or anything that will get you into that flat,”

 “I-”

 “And three days ago, you didn't know the queen, and-” John deflates, letting go of his anger, “Look. Just tell me you have somewhere to stay.”

 “I-”

 “I can tell when you lie.”

 “You can't!” Sherlock snorts, shaking his head.

 “Can.”

 “Cannot.”

 “Can-”

 “Cannot!”

 “Can.” John is grinning though, and Sherlock can't help but laugh.

 “You argue like a child.” He looks away.

 “Sherlock-”

 “I'll be fine, John. Honestly.” He needs to be out of here, to see London, to feel it under his feet and breathe it into his lungs. He needs to check to see if his old flat is still there, to see who lives there now and to decide what to do from here. He has a sinking feeling that the bounds will call sooner than not, but-

 “Fine, fine. But if you're not?” John holds out a card, a number scrawled in pen on the back.

 “...Thanks,”

 “It's a phone number.” John gives him a look.

 “Yes, yes-”

 “You find a phone, and you dial it.” He demonstrates with his blocky cell phone, a device Sherlock's seen him use on occasion, “Okay?”

 “...Okay,” Sherlock rolls his eyes, “Can I have my clothes back now?”

 John doesn't say anything about how Sherlock needed to be told how to use a phone. He doesn't say anything when he's fascinated by the automatic door at the exit to the hospital. And he doesn't say anything about Sherlock's wide-eyed staring at the skyline. And when Sherlock turns to say something, anything- and John doesn't say goodbye, either, just heading back inside.

 


	4. Lost

 The city is still beautiful, even though it's not his city.

 It's January, and he can feel the bite of the cold through his coat and see his breath in the air. He finds a pawn shop early in, selling a few stones for less than their value. He's grateful to the hospital for returning all his belongings- he's been in others that weren't so honest- and for the healthcare, he supposes, but- London feels strange. Her heartbeat is different, the air is different, and it's too crowded, even for London.

 He lasts two days, before he finds a payphone. He's managed other worlds on his own, but this one... It's rattled him. He blames the head wound, instead of his heart.

 

~*~

 

“S'not much-” John stands aside, letting Sherlock inside the flat, “I mean, you'll need to sleep on the flo- have you been eating?”

 “You're not my doctor anymore, John,” Sherlock gives him a look, coming into the warm flat. He hadn't lied when he said it wasn't much, a small kitchen tacked on to a bedroom. A pair of chairs face an ancient looking television, and behind them sits the bed. Just beside the door there's a small hallway, and at the end, a bathroom.

 “Doesn't mean I can't worry,” He rolls his eyes, closing the door behind Sherlock. He was surprised to get the phone call, he'd expected the other man to disappear into the night. A few of the nurses had a pool as to whether he was MI-6 or not, “I'll order in. Curry alright?”

 “Yes, fine-” He's examining a bookshelf, and John feels exposed.

 “I don't do this. I mean- I've never brought a patient home like a lost puppy, I mean.”

 “How lucky for me, then.” Sherlock says dryly, sitting in one of the chairs.

 “I think this is where you say please. Possibly thank you,”

 “...Thank you, John.”

 “You're welcome, Sherlock. Couldn't let you freeze on the streets. Coldest night of the year, they're saying.” He jerks his head in the direction of the muted television, where the news anchors are panicking over a cold front.

 

~*~

 

“John.”

“Shut up, Sherlock, m' trying to sleep.”

“Don't you ever get tired of- this?”

Sherlock can hear John's sheets rustling as he turns over, can hear the slippery sound of his duvet being readjusted. There's a long minute of silence, and for a moment he thinks that John may have fallen asleep.

“Tired of what?”

“This. This tiny flat in the city, the boring tedium of work and pub and home and work and pub and home- over and over again.”

“No.”

“No?”

“It isn't boring. The hospital brings in interesting patients- look at you, for example.”

Sherlock wets his lips, rolling onto his side so he can just make out John's shape in the bed above him, “Do you often bring patients home, Dr. Watson?”

He's startled a laugh out of the other man, “Not often, no. And I don't often let them kip on my floor, either. But it's not like you had anywhere else to go.”

“You could have let them commit me.”

There's another long pause before John answers, “You had a head injury.”

“You could have told them I was lying.”

“But I didn't, did I?”

“But _why?”_

“You were telling your own kind of truth. I don't know why you- I've seen amnesia. I did a turn in the psychiatric ward, so I've seen insanity, too. You- you aren't. I don't know what you are, but-”

“You wouldn't believe me if I told you.” He tells the darkness.

“Oh? Try me?” He can hear John's grin.

For one moment, he considers it. Telling John about _Them_ , about the rules and Lestrade and Molly and the trees that sang at sunrise. About the cow world and the bee world and the world where the atmosphere was like helium, and how he and Lestrade had high, squeaky voices for two turns after that one. About the wars he's seen, with demons. About witchcraft and the way a siren's voice can lure you onto the rocks. About the way the stars themselves can change, can dance, can fall to earth in the form of a girl. About a world without animals, about worlds made up of nothing but the churning sea and sky. About space- And then he swallows the lump in his throat and simply answers, “Maybe another time.”

“Alright. Goodnight, Sherlock.”

“Goodnight, John.”

 

~*~

 

It's- domestic. Very domestic. John leaves for work each morning, and Sherlock finds his way around London, relearning its winding streets and careful alleys. He visits Buckingham Palace, spends an afternoon at a museum. He has a bit of cash, and he uses it wisely. Every night, he goes back to John's flat and eats takeaway or something John's cooked up. They watch crap telly, and Sherlock spoils the ending to murder mysteries. They fall asleep talking most nights, Sherlock on the floor beside John's bed.

John talks about the hospital, about his sister Harry and her wife Clara. He tells Sherlock stories from his childhood, about the girls he's dated (Sherlock pretends to fall asleep to avoid these, it's a feeling he's not used to) and of university sports. Sherlock tells John stories of what he's seen that day- a lawyer running off to be with his mistress, a school group in the museum with a teacher who's a professional art forger. John listens, laughs in all the right places, and tells him he's brilliant.

 

~*~

 

The first week in February, as he's sitting in his chair across from John, berating the protagonist of the drama for not realizing his wife is cheating- his stomach turned. His hands itched, and his brain- his brain _buzzed._

For the first time in all the turns he's played, he's consumed with dread

 

~*~

 

"What the hell is going on!?" John jogged to keep up with the man's longer strides, pulling his coat on as they go, "It's nearly midnight, Sherlock, you can't be out- your head-”

"Damn my head, John! Dammit all," He didn't stop, his face pale.

"I don't- you're going to make it worse, you'll catch cold- you shouldn't be up-”

"It wouldn't matter."

"It would matter to me!"

"No!" He snapped, slowing The need to move, to get closer to that damnable boundary churning at his gut. He's waited too long- but he has to go. He can't not go. 

"Look, letting you stay in my flat- it's improper, but I said I would take care of you, until you recovered your memory-" John's breathing is heavy as he tries to keep up. His voice is a harsh whisper,

"I have my memory, John! You just wouldn't believe what I remember. I- I can't explain, alright? I'll be back as soon as I'm able." It's agony now, like the world itself is trying to cleave him in half.

“I can tell when you lie, remember?” John grabs his arm, grip firm, “What the hell are you doing?”

“I can't, John. Just- go home,” He jerks free of John's grasp and his long stride carries him down and around the corner, to the park and its boundary edged with poplar trees and redbrick.

“Sherlock-” By the time John catches up, the park is empty.

 

~*~

 

Sherlock finds himself alone on an island, with ALONE etched in the sand in front of him as a warning.

For the first time in two hundred turns, he breaks down and weeps.

 

~*~

 

Three turns (horses, space, island) later, he finds Molly Hooper twelve minutes before she's due to be burned at the stake (again). None of the villagers had died this time, Molly convincing the primitive people that she'd step onto the fire when it was hot enough. They were a trusting people, who promised to check in to make sure she'd been properly killed in the morning. She had a soft heart, Molly, and hated rule two. Sherlock dragged her off the stake with a groan, “You've gained weight, at least three pounds,”

“Have not!” She stumbled to her feet and began to shake the ash from her hair, “Sherlock!”

“Molly,” He nods, and is immediately knocked off his feet as she tackles him into a hug. He gives a little whumf! Noise as the air is knocked out of his lungs- “Ow! Hey!”

“You LEFT us!” She pulled back, face torn in the awkward place between a snarl and a smile with too many teeth.

“Boundaries are odd that way,” He straightened up, adjusting his scarf and dusting the ash from his coat.

“You- you idiot!” She looks eager to smack him, “Lestrade thought you'd gotten home- he sulked for nearly a dozen turns,”

“Is he here?” Sherlock frowned, looking around. Her pyre was still crackling merrily away, the firelight creating strange shadows in the grass.

“No, we-” She's not longer looking at him, her gaze on the ground.

Sherlock's gaze snapped back to her, focusing intently. Her dress is filthy, mud stained and faded. Her hair is slick with oil, and her fingernails are ragged, “When did he leave you?”

“He didn't leave me.” She snarls, blue eyes flashing, “Unlike someone I can name.”

“You left him.” It's a statement of fact, but it doesn't escape him how her eyes dull and her shoulders slump back.

“No- I didn't intend to. He got like you did,”

“Like I what?”

“Obsessed with _Them_. Finding _them_. He didn't eat, didn't stop hunting. He was convinced that he just needed to find a gap, a spot between their games, like we did before.”

“And you didn't agree?” He needs more data, gently prompting her.

 “No! Of course not. I see no reason to go begging for more trouble- they've already ruined my life, I have no wish to ask for seconds,” She wipes her eyes, quickly, moving away from the fire, “I hate them. I won't pretend I don't want revenge- but- I want home more.”

 “I got back, Molly.” He keeps his voice quiet, looking away.

 “...you what?” She turns, eyes wet and shining in the warm light of the fire behind him.

 “I got back to London.” He keeps his voice quiet and even.

 “You-” She stares, “But you're here.”

 “I was in London, and yet when the bounds called- I had to answer.” He tries to keep the emotion out of his voice, to be Sherlock, but- his voice cracks at the last word, and he turns his back to her, collar on his coat popped up. 

“But- that's-” 

“They broke their rule. I made it back to London, and yet I'm still here- still a discard, still playing their bloody stupid game.”

 “You didn't make it home,” A voice replies from the woods by Molly, “You just made it back.”

 “Of course I made it home- London is my home-”

 “London is a place,” Lestrade steps into the firelight, eyes locked on Sherlock, “It was different, wasn't it?” 

“Greg!” Molly gasps.

 “Years had passed, but it was still my city,” Sherlock scoffs, not turning to face his friend.

 “Greg, I-”

 “Hush, Molls,” He hasn't taken his eyes off the taller man, mouth set in a line.

 “Lestrade, aren't you going to-” He waves a hand in Molly's general direction, teeth gritted together.

 “You left us. Left her.”

 “I didn't have a choice. The boundaries work-”

 “Haven't you, Mr. Brain, figured it out yet?”

 “I- what?” He's startled into turning around, “Figured out what?”

 “C'mon, Molly,” Lestrade shakes his head, “Sorry about earlier, I just-”

 “It's fine-” It isn't, but she can't believe he's here. There would be time for talk later, but now- “We can't just leave him. What are you talking about?”

 “Leave him. I have a campsite a bit up here-”

 “No!” She stomps her foot like a child, tears boiling over, left over adrenaline leaving her shaking, “I am not going anywhere until you explain! Where have you been? Why is Sherlock still here? Were you just going to let them burn me?! Have you been here the whole damn time and why didn't you find me sooner?!”

 Lestrade takes in a deep breath, looking between Sherlock and Molly. They'd traveled together nearly twenty turns, various months and weeks in various worlds, but- “They cheat, Sherlock. London in 1895 was your home- now, it's just a city.”

 “I suspected as much.” He sets his chin high.

 “I sus-” He snorts, “Of course you did, big brain like yours, but what does that mean?”

 Sherlock snorts, “That we can never get home. We have to keep playing, one turn after the next.

Never aging. We just stay out of play-”

 Molly lets out a small sob, and buries her head in her hands.

 “Forever.” Lestrade nods.

 He swallows hard before he answers, trying not to think of John back in England, waiting. “Impossible. They have rules- clearly they have to follow them.”

 “What, you want to appeal their decision? Rules aren't fair?” He puts an arm protectively around Molly, pressing her against him to keep her shoulders from shaking.

 “Why not?!” He looks at his friends, “We know the rules. They gave them to us. We know there's a rule maker, they wouldn't have rules if they didn't have to follow them so we must be missing something-”

 “Sherlock, this isn't one of your puzzles. It's simple: They've cheated.” He brushes a bit of ash from Molly's hair, “Now come on. I have tea and biscuits back at camp, nicked them from a window-”

 Molly grits her teeth and pulls away from Lestrade, standing up straighter. There is frustration and determination in the set of her shoulders, even as her cheeks are tear-stained, “We will get home.”

 “We don't have homes anymore!” Sherlock explodes, “Are you an idiot?! They're gone. In the past. Erased. Everyone we've ever known is dead, our property reclaimed- it's like we were never there. There is no home to go back to- ever.”

 “Sherlock.” Lestrade is staring at him, “Stop.”

 “No- It's-”

 “Molly's my home, Sherlock.” Lestrade looks away, taking a careful step back from Molly, who's turned to stare at him.

 “What do you-”

 He holds his hands up, “I noticed it after you left. I didn't need to be near a boundary to travel. Where she went- I went. And I can be injured again. I-”

 “Why- what?!”

 “Home is a person, I think. Or people. Time's passed, right?”

 “...Right.” Sherlock is doing the mental calculations, putting the pieces together, “You can be hurt? How did you-”

 “Bullet in my side.” He lifts his shirt carefully, revealing a thick bandage wrapped around his midsection, “The bastard didn't die, either. I shot him, though. Entered play.”

 “You-”

 “Greg-” Molly's eyes are shining with tears, “But-”

 “Hush, Molls. We can talk after. They're cheats, Sherlock. Completely.”

 Sherlock turns away, “I- I should leave you two to talk.”

 “Don't be silly,” Molly frowns, “We only just got you back.”

 “Let him go, Molly. He can find us when he's ready, and we should talk. I'm- sorry,” He's sheepish now, running a hand through his thinning hair.

 “I'm not.” She smiles up at him wryly, “Well, I am, a bit, but-”

 He leans down and kisses her for the first time, quickly, and gets dragged down by his shirt collar. By the time either of them looks up again, Sherlock is gone.

 

 ~*~

 

It takes five turns for Sherlock to get back to London- he waits them out at the boundary, pacing and yelling at _Them_ , half sure they can hear him and almost convinced they're laughing at him. He thinks of London's smell and John's tiny flat with it's small kitchen filled with their laughter. He thinks of the way John would drape his lab coat over the back of his chair and then complain when it got all wrinkled. He remembers the slight slant of the coffee table, and the James Bond movies he'd made fun of until John threatened to tape his mouth closed.

He thinks of the way John smells- of earl grey tea and antiseptic from the hospital. He thinks of the way the floor had felt, biting into his back. The way the pillows slid on the hardwood floor, and the way John had once hit him in the face with a pillow to shut him up so they could both sleep.

He remembers the quiet hospital room, with John in the uncomfortable chair doing his paperwork on a clip board instead of a desk. He remembers the biting cold of January and his fingers hesitant on the pay phone's keys. He thinks of the way the Chinese take out smelled, and how they'd argued over the extra fortune cookie.

John's smile. John's sarcastic lift of his eyebrow when he knows Sherlock is showing off. The way John can tell when he's lying, even when Sherlock isn't sure. The way John called him brilliant, amazing. The quiet mornings, drinking tea.

It had been two weeks, just two weeks of a world but- the boundary calls, and Sherlock answers, fingers crossed tightly in childish superstition.

 

In hope.

 


	5. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is it, it's a bit of a monster. Thanks for reading- it's my first fic in years, and my first in Sherlockverse. Let me know if you notice any horrific errors, and I'll do my best to patch it up.

 

He stumbled out of the boundary, bracing himself on a tree. He's out of breath, his head is spinning and his stomach won't settle. The first two worlds had been all wrong- all grey and brown, and then the carnival again. But- this, this looks right. The redbrick is bright with recent rain, and the poplar bark is comforting- and carefully scratched with the words FRIENDLY and the more recent WAR.

London.

It's London. Beautiful London, and the park is all in bloom. There are flowers edging the redbrick and the poplars are a bright and cheerful green. He lets out a whoop, and then he's running, coat flaring out behind him as he makes his way out of the park and into the street.

 

 

~*~

  
  
“What year is it?!” He's been searching for a newspaper, a date, a concert poster, something. Anything with the year on it, but he can't find evidence, can't find the data he needs to make sure. 

His interogation victim blinks once, twice, “You alright, mate?” 

Sherlock glances over the man, scowling. He's tall, but his shoulders and slumped and his boots are scuffed. He's wearing an expensive coat, but it's age is showing in the mending and the stitching around the shoulders. His watch is a knock off, but it's a good knock off- the man had been wealthy once, but isn't anymore. “I'm fine. What year is it?”

“Uh, 2011, why?” 

Sherlock is off and running again without dignifying his response with a response. He's glancing at street signs, but he knows this part of the city by heart.   
  


*~*  
  


John steps outside his flat and turns to lock the door behind him. He leans his cane against the wall, feeling a twinge in his leg as he does so. He's been back from Afghanistan for three months now, invalidated out. He'd become an army doctor and lost it again.

He'd been lucky to get his old flat back from his landlady. It was small, but it was his, and it reminded him of Sherlock- which was idiotic. Sherlock had been in his life less than three weeks, but he'd been entranced. He'd searched for the man for years afterward, checking the internet for any record of the man. He'd dug up some old birth records from the 1800s, but- The girl he dated before enlisted had told him he was obsessed.

He picks up his cane and turns to head towards the tube station, when he sees him.

Sherlock. He looks exactly the same- dark hair, coat flapping in the wind behind him as he runs towards John. Dr. Watson feels his heart stop, and he's convinced, for a moment, that he's actually gone insane. But then Sherlock is there, stupid Sherlock with his long limbs and his stupid collar popped and-

 John punches him.

 

~*~

 

“...John.” He stares, rubbing his cheek where John had struck him.

 John is looking at him like he's seen a ghost.

 “You're hurt.” He stares at the cane.

 “Was hurt, yeah. Bullet.” He gives him a weak smile.

 “How? When?!”

 “After you left- long after. Oi!” It's like he's just realized that Sherlock is actually there, that he's standing in front of him and- “You made it back.”

“I made it back.” He agrees. 

“How?” John has a dozen questions, all carefully planned and rehearsed for when he saw Sherlock Holmes again, but they've abandoned him.

“I don't-”

“Then don't,yet.” There would be time for answers. For interrogation and stories in the dark. John leaned in, heart in his throat.

Sherlock met him halfway, and his mind struggles to comprehend the fact he's here, kissing John. John Watson has his hands tangled in Sherlock hair, the cane dropping to the side walk with a clatter. He tastes him, breathes him in, pressed so tightly against him and- he's home.

He's finally home.

 

~*~

In this tiny, dingy flat above a subway shop, he's a man over one hundred years out of his time. He'd lived his life a ghost across dozens of worlds, worlds with kings and queens and demons and wars that raged for centuries. He's slept in haystacks and in jail cells, in palaces and pubs. He's learned language after language, studied humanity (and demonity), and been killed in a thousand different ways.

But here, in 221B, with John Watson, he's home.

The boundary is still there. It promises a dozen worlds more, it promises adventure and travel- but Sherlock never hears its call again. 


End file.
